"If you're thinking of using Void Grasp, I heavily advise against it," Vex warned, his voice sharp and mechanical in Harian's head.
Harian stood in front of the cell door, straightening the dead guard's uniform and brushing dust off the chestplate, trying to look the part. "Why not?" he muttered under his breath, adjusting his stance.
> [VOID GRASP IS A MIMICRY SKILL,] Vex replied. [IT ALLOWS YOU TO CAPTURE A TARGET'S PRESENCE, NOT THEIR APPEARANCE.]
Harian froze mid-motion. "Wait....so I can't copy how they look?"
[CORRECT.]
A pause. Then Vex added, almost like a teacher scolding a careless student:
[REMEMBER, YOUR ESSENCE HAS DEVOLVED. YOU NO LONGER POSSESS THE NIGHTMARE ESSENCE—ONLY VOID ESSENCE. AND UNTIL YOUR MISSING SOUL FRAGMENTS ARE RECOVERED, YOU CANNOT ACCESS THE HIGHER LAYERS OF AUTHORITY.]
Harian exhaled slowly, the realization sinking in.
It was true.
The techniques still worked Essence Break, Null Step, and Devour Field but not like before. Not like when he was Hanzo, the Nightmare King.
Now, every activation took time. The flow of Essence lagged; the synchronization between thought and motion wasn't instant anymore. Worse, the cost was enormous. Each use left him lightheaded, drained.
His fingers tightened around the sword's hilt.
Void Grasp : by capturing a target's essence through Devour Field, the user could mimic their presence.
If Harian still wielded the Nightmare Essence, he could've copied not only their looks but their skills and instincts as well. But that was far off now.
At present, he could only mimic how they felt their aura, tone, the weight of their existence. A poor imitation. One break in concentration, and the disguise would crumble instantly.
The sound of boots echoed down the corridor.
"Gremlo! We heard a ruckus here is everything alright?"
A squad of guard knights entered, the meanest-looking one at the front, his eyes sharp and suspicious. His glare locked onto Harian immediately the man he believed to be Gremlo.
Harian instinctively pulled the collar higher over his face, lowering his chin.
Fuck it, he thought. "Activate Void Grasp."
[.....ACKNOWLEDGE] Vex said, sounding somehow tired. Harian swore he heard vex sigh but wasn't sure if it was capable of sighing in the first place.
The faint hum of Essence filled Harian's skull as the energy he'd devoured earlier surged upward, flooding into his mind.
The world shifted slightly, his body adjusting, his mannerisms changing as the mimicry took hold.
"Yes, sir," Harian said his voice not quite his own, rougher, heavier, almost Gremlo's but not perfect.
He straightened, keeping his face hidden in shadow.
"Sir?" one of the guards asked, blinking. Gremlo was known to rarely call his superiors sir. "You… sound off. Are you okay?"
Harian gave a slow nod, exaggerating the movement the way he remembered Gremlo carrying himself stiff, angry, always irritated.
"You heard a ruckus?" he said, forcing Gremlo's gruff tone. "Everything's fine."
The lead guard frowned. "Hmm. You look… different. It's just ...i can't really explain it."
Harian froze, fighting to hold the disguise steady as the Void Essence pulsed faintly through his body.
[WARNING] Vex said flatly. [LOSS OF CONCENTRATION WILL DISABLE THE MIMICRY FIELD.]
"I'm okay," Harian said, forcing his voice steady trying not to lose focus. Every breath had to stay measured. If his concentration broke for even a second, the illusion would collapse.
Inside the cell, the prisoners stared in utter disbelief. None of them dared breathe too loud. They were watching a seventeen-year-old pretending to be the most feared guard in Thax Prison and somehow pulling it off.
The lead guard suddenly turned slightly, scanning the nearby cells.
Every inmate immediately looked away.
One man started whistling off-key. Another suddenly found the ceiling fascinating while the one beside him found the floor fascinating.
In another began doing pushups with manic enthusiasm, shouting "one, two, one, two!" like his life depended on it.
Two others pretended to argue over a piece of stale bread. "Why sir that bread be mine" "No sir I found it first"
And in the corner, a bald man dramatically flopped onto his straw mat and started snoring louder than thunder.
Across the hall, the same scene unfolded like synchronized chaos.
"What are you talking about? Who's Gremlo? Never heard of him!" another said, eyes darting everywhere except at Harian.
A pair of older prisoners quietly turned their backs to the cell door, holding hands in fake prayer, just in case.
Someone even shouted, "Praise be to the Divine Knights!" only to be immediately shushed by his cellmates.
The guards paused mid-step, staring at the utterly bizarre display of sudden, exaggerated normalcy.
It was a perfect, ridiculous tableau of feigned innocence.
The lead guard frowned. "...Weird," he muttered, glancing at the other cells. Everywhere his eyes went, prisoners avoided his gaze like their lives depended on it. "They're acting strange today."
From behind him, another voice spoke. "Sir Maxwell," a lower-ranked guard said. "It seems the prisoners are being..... weird."
"Yes," the lead guard said absently, still scanning. Then his eyes flicked to Harian's cell.
"Wait." His tone hardened. "Where's the black-haired kid?"
The air froze.
Inside the cell, everyone immediately went into performance mode.
Muliad pretended to sleep upright, snoring like a saint.
The old man began muttering to himself about soup recipes.
George stretched, yawned, and laid down, trying to look bored.
The red-haired boy, mercifully, was still unconscious.
"Uh…" Harian said, forcing himself to sound dismissive. He pointed toward the corner, to the figure covered in cloth. "He's over there. Asleep."
"...Asleep?"
"Yes," Harian said flatly.
The lead guard didn't look convinced. His hand drifted toward his sword hilt.
"Is that so?" he said slowly. "Open the cell. Now."
As Harian opened the cell door, he kept his expression calm, confident almost bored. The group of guards entered, five in total, their armor clanking loudly in the confined space.
"Where is he?" Maxwell, the lead guard, asked, his eyes scanning the dim cell.
Harian pointed toward the corner where a shape lay under a ragged piece of cloth Gremlo's body.
"There,"
Maxwell squinted, his eyes narrowing. There was something off in his tone, in the stiff way "Gremlo" carried himself. He frowned, stepping closer, suspicion flaring.
Meanwhile, Harian quietly exhaled through his nose and deactivated Void Grasp. The illusion flickered and dropped instantly, the familiar pressure in his mind lifting but leaving behind an ache of exhaustion. His vision blurred at the edges, his Essence drained to a trickle.
Still, it was enough.
The guards crowded around the "sleeping" prisoner, curious why everything felt wrong the smell of burnt Essence in the air, the strange behavior of the inmates, the silence that followed them, the ruckus and noise they heard earlier
Harian took one silent step back.
Then struck.
The last guard the one standing closest to the door barely had time to react before Harian's elbow slammed into the side of his neck. The man's eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a stone.
A thud echoed.
The prisoners gasped even Muliad's eyes widened at how smooth, almost casual, the movement had been. George looked like he wanted to scream and cheer at the same time.
But Maxwell… Maxwell was already kneeling beside the covered figure.
Muliad's voice cut through the tension, low and sharp. "Would you really disturb a kid's rest before he dies?"
Maxwell turned his head slightly, glaring. "You don't get to tell me what to do anymore, Sir Muliad," he spat, dripping with venom at the fallen noble.
Muliad simply shrugged, his tone colder now. "Have it your way, then."
George jumped in, desperate to stall. "Hey, uh...what day is it today?" he blurted out.
Maxwell didn't even glance at him. "Today?" His grin was cruel. "Today's your last day on earth."
He reached for the cloth, confident, smug knowing the commanding officer, Sir Leon, had ordered this cell's execution moved up. He'd enjoy being the one to start it.
The fabric was rough under his fingers as he lifted it.
Then he froze.
The color drained from his face. Every muscle locked in place. The torchlight flickered across his wide eyes as realization hit.
His hand trembled. The cloth slipped from his fingers.
He looked around slowly at Muliad, at George, at the old man and horror crept up his spine.
Their wrists.
Their ankles.
The shackles.
Gone.